


Mother have I made you proud?

by go_back_to_sleep (DeadAngel_DoNotEat)



Category: Hannibal (TV), Original Work, The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Cannibalism, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, Strong Omega character, dom omega
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 20:24:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19035013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadAngel_DoNotEat/pseuds/go_back_to_sleep
Summary: Wayhaven chronicles with a/o/b dynamics with a darker, sharper detective.Divergence made;- Addition of a/o/b dynamics- Serial Killer Male Detective- Added police officer characters- Bigger Wayhaven- More accurate police procedures- Better detective skills because that was the main thing that annoyed me in the original game-Three blood mutated characters, not one- Minor cross over with Been a Son (Hannibal) (Male Detective is one of Hannibal's 'daughters')I didn't even expect there to be over 80 fanfics on this fandom. This is entirely self indulgent - though one might find it interesting.





	1. Knock knock

**Author's Note:**

> Cross over with aob Hannibal fanfiction; [Been a Son](https://archiveofourown.org/series/499879)  
> Cross over with aob Original Work; [Battle Cry](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18474610/chapters/43773238)

 

Moonlight slices through the beakers on the top of the laboratory counter, a hundred shafts of light bouncing off the pristine, polished surface. Precise lines of glass tubes held in stark white cartons are piled on the centre island.  
Dr. Ethan Murphy enjoys the small space of his lab, one he has worked hard on making his own. He is grateful for the comforting quiet it brings and is, at that moment, even more thankful for the size of the large counters. They fully hide his crouched, shuddering body as he hunches behind them, biting his lip to stop his shuddering breath giving away his position.

"Tut tut, Dr. Murphy, nobody likes a coward." The taunt is followed by the smash of glass, shards of the broken beakers glancing across the linoleum floor.

Dr. Murphy squeezes his eyes shut and grips his knees closer to his chest, his teeth biting down into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. The squeak of the intruder's shoes on linoleum stops. The air falls silent and heavy, pressing down like a weight on Murphy's tight shoulders.  
"If you don't want me to find you, Dr. Murphy, you shouldn't make yourself so tempting." The voice echoes from nowhere, a hungered growl from the darkness.  
Murphy's eyes snap open as a warm drop of blood dribbles from his lip and soaks into his trousers. He wipes the blood from his lips and chokes back a sob.  
But it's too late.  
A hand lurches from the dark and snatches at Murphy, like claws around prey.

"Such an irresistible thing, don't you think?" the man whispers, his face shadowed but the glint in his eyes unmistakable.

When his tongue laps over the smear of blood on Murphy's hand, the doctor retches and tries to crawl back, yelling as the hand grips his tighter.  
The crack of bone perforates the silence.

"Dear, dear…." He tugs on Murphy's mangled hand, dragging him over the slick surface of the linoleum. "I don't want to break you, doctor." Murphy is yanked up onto his feet. The intruder is the same height as he is, but appears ten feet tall in the gloom.

"Shhh…."

He places a firm finger on the doctor's lips to stop the trembling cries. Then he takes Murphy's hand in both of his, staring into his eyes with the intense, paralysing gaze only a predator can achieve. "Why don't you relax?"  
The words reverberate like a haunting echo inside Murphy's head, bouncing from one side of his skull to the other until he sways with dizziness. A swathe of calm seeps from his head down into his neck, following his spine and reaching right down to his toes, until he stumbles back from the suddenness of his muscles relaxing.  
Murphy smiles at the intruder and takes a deep breath.

"Much better," the intruder whispers, before plunging his teeth into Murphy's throat.

 

——

 

The crime scene is a wriggling mass of spectators by the time he arrives, even this early in the morning. People line the small alleyway, packed so tightly Abel can't believe they're able to breathe, let alone fight for space to see the end of the street. Writhing worms gathering to feast on someone else’s kill. It’s always the same.  
Revving the engine of his battered, silver hatchback does little to gain anyone's attention, and he realises he can't park unless they move. With an annoyed sigh, he rolls down the window and balances an elbow against the door so he can lean out as far as possible.

“Wayhaven CID. Move out of the way!”

The order doesn't inspire the quick motion that he’d hoped, but the buzzing crowd does reluctantly part to let him drive further down the alleyway.  
Managing to park, Abel cranks on the handbrake, trying to ignore the pained, crunching sound the car makes. With a haphazard brush to clear the ebony curls from his forehead, he eagerly steps out of the battered car. Detective work is not as adrenaline charged as his other hunts, mostly ending in smug satisfaction rather than primal bliss. But he still finds joy in the hunt.

The game is afoot.

The chill air bites at his skin as soon as he leaves the warm comfort of the car. He lets the cold air seep into his lungs and clear his head. Buds may be clinging to the few stark trees lining the alleyway, but it is far from spring yet.

He grits his teeth at the wall of spectators. It’s been a while since there was a murder in Wayhaven, and the people are almost as thirsty for blood as he is. Abel’s own kills had to be displayed or dumped out of town and out of his jurisdiction, lest he’d have to waste time investigating himself.

It’s hard to bully his way past the crowd with his svelte omega stature, but no one crops a feel on him this time. His efforts at enforcing stricter laws regarding sexual harassment must’ve paid off. That, or Asa has broken enough bones in retaliation to build a reputation. He’s had to deal with complaints over police brutality thanks to his hot headed mentee, but Abel knows the young red head is holding back plenty. After all, the first time they met, he was called in to pull him off an alpha he was beating with a wire wrapped bat for touching his omega mate. For an omega himself, Asa tends to act very much like an alpha when his mate is involved.

As he approaches the blue-and-white-striped barrier, Abel is greeted by the man in question. Asa’s perpetual frown eases as a mischievous grin crinkles the burn scar covering half his face.

“Credentials please.”

Abel raises an eyebrow. “Must we really do this?”

“It’s like a ritual. An official transition from lab rat to bat man!”

“Batman.” Abel winces. “You decided to forgo Sherlock Holmes and went for Batman.”

“He’s the world’s greatest detective! It’s poetic too. Rat given wings and all that.”

Despite his exasperation, pride tugs a small smile out the corner of his lips as he pulls out his new badge and ID.

"All good, Detective; step on through."

‘Detective’. It’s been fourteen years since he left the embrace of Doctor Lecter’s mansion with a new purpose in mind. Stepping into the title almost feels like coming home. He tempers the excitement as he enters the scene. There’s a corpse waiting for analysis and a hunt to organise.

“Finally here then, Detective Fairbourne."

Abel glances up at the sound of the familiar voice, a smile tugging back on his face. Officer Tina Poname strides towards him as the other forensics officers call out similar greetings amidst the sound of clicking cameras and white flashes.

“Strange to see you out of a Tyvek suit. No sweeping Burberry coat for the occasion?”

“I’d say not looking like a plastic gloved thumb is satisfactory enough, fashion-wise.” He returns the jibe. The white protective suit does no justice for Tina’s curvaceous figure. His memory conjures up said figure in great detail, complete with texture and taste. He clears his throat to chase away the image. “What have you found?”

Her nose wrinkles as she speaks, the freckles splattered over her rosy cheeks becoming more pronounced with the expression. “It’s a bit weird. Not weird like the crazy that turns up down in Baywood, but still weird.” Abel has to repress a smile at the mention. Carefully cut and threaded flesh, creative torture devices, missing body parts, paintings in blood and a non verbal message in display. A mix of elusive statement and pragmatic butchering. And sometimes, he indulges. Using the bodies as messy play dough. He destroys all evidence of those. Too high a chance of.. his bio matter being discovered in those cases.

“Victim was Marissa Lei. Her next of kin lives in Germany. Not many acquaintances. New in town.”

“No elaborate display? No organs harvested? sexual assault? trauma?”

“Just signs of struggle against bindings, some impact bruises - not severe, and these..”

They approach the corpse. It's a woman in her thirties; she has lengths of blonde hair matted together and deep bruises marring her cold, freckled skin. Abel’s gaze is drawn to the most obvious wounds; Two ragged gashes each run down her forearms; the skin around the torn wounds is stained deep crimson and purple.

Abel immediately frowns at the meagre amount of blood pooling around the corpse. “That’s not nearly enough blood.” He crouches down to look at the wounds, covering his mouth habitually. “Can’t say for sure without touching it, but looks like the suspect cut the veins, not the arteries. Messily, I might add. Not clean sharp cuts, more a tear.. The wounds have to be post mortem. So why did the suspect make it and how did she die?”

“There’s no obvious marks. We’ll need to meet up with Verda for autopsy. what small amount of blood splatter we can find suggests the cut was made on that table before the body was thrown down on the ground.”

“Discarded..” He turns his gaze back to the wound. There’s something niggling him about it. “Thin.. Bottom to top, inside to outside, slanted, tear… vein. This is from a needle torn out.”

Tina nods. “That makes sense. They must’ve been exsanguinating her. It’d explain the lack of blood.”

After examining the scene some more and questioning the techies, Abel tamps down his forensics habits to examine relations and witnesses. Officer Aranai wanders to him as Abel rubs the fatigue out of his eyes.

“How are we doing?” Jaskier asks with his soft trilling accent. Jaskier Aranai is another stray Abel tucked under his wing despite him being an alpha. He doesn’t know how the wiry blond managed to find himself in a Wayhaven club all the way from Romania, high and getting higher under the crack of Abel’s leather riding crop. But Jaskier decided he liked Wayhaven and his one night stand enough to stay.

“Cause of death should be easily determined after autopsy. But I need to work on the Why and Who.”

Abel gives Jaskier an appraising look. With long pale elf like hair straight out a Tolkien novel and a similarly elven face, his brand of gentle flirting could charm the pants off, or more importantly, the information out of anyone.

“Officer Aranai, could you take witness statements and compile a list of reliable leads and witnesses for me to interview?”

“Right on it, Detective Fairbourne.” He smiles knowingly. Abel hates dealing with the public.

He gives him a nod of appreciation. "Take Douglas from the station if you need help."  
“That would be unwise. A parrot would be more help than that boy.” Jaskier winces before gliding away, pad flipped open in preparation.

There’s not much else he can do at the moment. After one last examination of the surroundings, he steps out of the crime scene, eager to escape the crowd.

"Officer Fairbourne—I mean, Detective!"

His shoulders instantly hunch at the voice, and Abel rolls his head from side to side to release the sudden tension before turning to face the source of the call.

"Bobby Marks.”

A tabloid journalist with too little courtesy and too much ambition. Leaps on any kind of gossip he can—whether it be true or not.  
Abel slept with him once or twice in university, and apparently, that meant they were dating. And that everyone in the campus should know. It took a lot of effort to fix his reputation after that. A fact that he hasn’t forgiven the beta busybody for.

He grins as he approaches, his phone held out like a microphone. "What's happened here? Can you tell me—"

“I cannot,” The reply is curt, matter of fact.

"Nothing at all?"

"No, nothing at all," He repeats, dipping beneath the barrier and heading for the sanctuary of his car.

"Not even for an old friend?"

The way he says ‘friend’ makes Abel’s eyes narrow. “We weren’t friends. Despite your insubstantial dick size, you managed to be nothing but a huge pain in the ass.”

He doesn’t bother to listen to Bobby’s spluttering reply before slamming the door of his raggedy car. Bobby continues to shout muffled pleas through the window, so he turns on the radio as he straps on the seatbelt. He revs the engine loud enough to be sure no one doubts his resolve to run them over if they don't move.  
The sea of spectators quickly part as he reverses out of the alley.

 

\----

 

It will take some time for the body to find its way to the autopsy table, so Abel decides to visit home. His property is as isolated as he could manage in the dense city area of Britain. The area is still dense enough that someone will hear the screams if he doesn’t silence his ‘dates’ properly, but he has a soundproof basement that he’d improved upon. There is also a special air filter for his heats, and a floor heating system in place of arid air heaters. All in all, he’s quite satisfied with his clean and uncluttered abode.

Feeling peckish, Abel takes stock of his refrigerator. During his stay, Hannibal had imparted to him as much culinary knowledge he could in the limited time. Cooking didn’t come to him as naturally as it did to Hannibal, but after learning the chemical and physical process behind it, he managed to become quite proficient. The focus he had to put into it was still quite exhausting. But he relished the results of his success. In many ways.  
He still had some of Alexander Gladstone’s thigh. He’d planned to make Osso Bucco, but that would take much more time than he had now. With a wistful sigh, he pulls out some vegetables to make himself a stir fry noodle.  
By the time he’s finished, a text from Verda notifies him that the autopsy is in progress.

 

\----

 

"Morning, Douglas," Abel calls as he pushes open the heavy glass door, pleased to be back in the familiar setting of the station. It was once a factory, but the insides have been completely refurbished into a bright, modern work area. The walls are mostly made of large windows, and the work stations are efficient but open.  
The young officer, seated behind the grey, faux-marble front desk of the station, scrambles to shove his cell phone into his pocket. Instead, he only manages to drop it on the floor. They both stare at the item as it spins on its back before slowing to a stop.  
Douglas shifts his wide-eyed gaze to him, both of them realising work had been far from his mind while I'd been out.  
Abel merely raises a disappointed brow. Douglas averting his gaze, shame tinging his ears pink.

“Really?”

Douglas simply starts to pout. Abel relents with a sigh, ruffling the kid’s pale blond hair as he passes. It’s soft and shaggy like a puppy’s.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” He mutters, not seeing the brighter tinge of something other than shame spreading over the young beta’s face.

 

The pathologist’s lab is, by necessity, quite chilly. Abel winces against the harsh white lights before slipping on his goggles. Omegan sensitivity was a pain in everyday life, but it aided him greatly in the comfort of the night. He can deal with the discomforts if it helps him become a better hunter in the dark. The sensitivity to temperature, however, was bothersome in every situation. He shivers as he approaches the corpse, partly with excitement.

“What did you find? Are we looking for blood harvesters? Not as lucrative as organ harvesting, but easier, I suppose.”

Verda turns with a grin, brown eyes twinkling. “Good to see you down here in the crypts again, detective.”

“Once thing I didn’t miss is having to wear these” Abel gestures at the goggles somewhat impatiently. “You haven’t cut in yet? Anything special?”

“No bio-matter or fingerprints.. Soil analysis didn’t disappoint, though.” He hands Abel the analysis results. “Our theory? Old abandoned site, wood, old paint, rusty metal and concrete. Near lake Lacrimossa and a forest.”

“..Old Farris warehouse. At the edge of town. That’s the only one that fits the whole profile.”

“That’s our prime suspect” He smiles.

“No suspects yet..” Abel mutters. “Tell me if you find anything else. I’m checking out the warehouse.”

“Do try not to contaminate the scene.. if it is a crime scene.”

“I’ll just take some soil samples for comparison. Do have an answering gift ready for me, Verda. I want those wounds analysed.”

“Yes sir. It’s getting dark, Fairbourne. Do be careful.”

Abel lets a hint of a smile show. “Always am.”

  

\----

 

After a century of neglect, Abel is impressed to find the paint declaring 'Farris and Sons' still clinging to the brick of the large, rectangular warehouse in some kind of defiance towards time. The roof isn't putting up as much of a fight. The metal, corrugated tiles are peeling away; some, already fallen, lie discarded on the swathe of concrete spreading out from the building like a dull, grey moat.

The warehouse is hidden from view of the town by the forest and is far enough out on the edge that no one really pays it much attention. A perfect place for misdeeds if not for the few daring teens that venture to the spot to experience the thrill of life. Whet their instincts with danger lest routine dull them into a brain dead state. It’s only when you become intimately aware of the fact that you can lose something, that you truly appreciate that which you have.  
Thankfully, the place is devoid of self congratulating teens when Abel steps out of his car.

The waning sunlight from over the horizon barely manages to keep the place visible. In barely a few minutes, he’d have to rely on the pale sliver of a crescent moon. He checks his flashlight, gun, knife, taser, handcuffs, and sample collecting tools before stepping closer.

He keeps his main three senses open and alert. Nothing to note of in the scent, sound, and sight he can detect for now.  
He takes a soil sample when he’s near enough, then flicks on the flashlight and points it at the warehouse.  
It creaks and moans in the breeze like an old dying thing. Abel is accustomed to haunting these kinds of places himself, but it’s easier to feel confident as a predator when he knows where and what exactly his prey is.

Scenting the air again, he turns off the flashlight and creeps into the warehouse. In the absolute darkness, he crouches. Still and assessing. If there is an alpha in here, Abel’s at a disadvantage. While his senses may be better in general than any other gender, an alpha’s senses are attuned to scenting pheromones. Especially an omega’s. Even in pitch darkness, an alpha would know exactly where he is. Abel suppresses a shudder and hopes his scent blocker does its job.

Fortunately, his senses tell him he’s alone. Just some nesting birds - pigeons, he thinks. Some mice and other critters. He tenses at the scuffles, but he’d be able to tell if it was something larger. The place is safe. Either that, or there’s a very silent predator with him. Abel quietly reaches for his flashlight. Trying to banish images of monsters from his head.

Monsters aren’t real, Abel. There won’t be some horrifying abomination inches from your face when you turn on the flashlight.

Humans are worse than monsters.

He clicks the flashlight on and does a sweep. Nothing of note. Graffiti lines most of the crumbling walls—all of it spray-painted with perfect spelling and grammar. God forbid one of the rebellious rich kids' parents find out they had spelled 'this place stinks' incorrectly.  
There’s gravel caked on the floor, so he takes another sample before moving to exit the building. And freezes.  
There was movement in the corner of his eye, but another sweep of his flashlight reveals nothing. Heart pounding, he reaches his senses out to where he’d seen the movement.

No scent. No sound. No one he can see.

He doesn’t think he can smell a cougar or any large animal that can move that silently. Scared despite himself, Abel stays still in the corner for a while, gun unholstered and cocked. He curses when his cellphone rings, hastily back out of the warehouse and flipping it open after stowing away the flashlight.

“Yes.” It comes out in a barely there whisper. Abel still backing cautiously towards his car.

“Detective? Are you alright?”

Verda. “Yes. I just thought I saw.. something. Might’ve been just a shadow.”

His voice is still somewhat low. He hates being scared, but caution can be valuable in survival.

"Are you all right? Do you need me to send someone to you?" There’s a definite worried tone to his voice now.

“That won’t be necessary. I’ve got the samples. I’m leaving the site now.”

“Okay good, ‘cause I have something you might wanna see.”

His heart rate picks back up, this time in excitement. “What is it?”

“It’s the blood, Fairbourne. It’s.. odd.”

Abel pauses in his tracks. “Odd?”

"It's her blood." There's the sound of shuffling papers down the phone. "It's not hers."

“Failed transfusion?”

“Well, maybe. But the weird thing is.. It’s not fully human blood. It doesn’t even look like animal blood. It’s.. weird.”

Abel is definitely interested now, struggling to keep his attention on the look out for an attack. “Weird how? Artificial?”

"I'm not sure," he says, followed by a heavy sigh. "It resembles human blood, but it's definitely not all hers. The best way I can think of to describe it so far is that a parasitic virus has mutated the blood cells in a major way."

“Virus?” A pulse of worry. “Is it contagious?”

"No, not that I can tell so far," he says. "I won't know anything for certain until I get the results of advanced tests. We’re going to have to have a haematologist look into it.”

Curiouser and curiouser.. Abel is excited to finally have a strange case on his table. The murders of Wayhaven had all been so boring. Predictable.  
This though, was a mystery straight out of a novel.

“Alright. I’ll be there in a few to drop these off.”

“Yeah, see you soon,” he says.

The snap of his folder phone masks the first footstep. Abel hears the second one as he puts away his phone and whirls around, pulling out his gun as the assailant barrels him down with impossible speed.  
The impact is unexpectedly hard, and Abel hits the ground as he loses grip on his gun. His flashlight falls from his belt and clicks on, rolling away from him and shining into his eyes, blinding him for a moment.  
Abel moves out of the light with a snarl, shuffling on his knees towards his gun, freezing when the shadowed figure silently steps between him and his means of protection. Abel keeps his eyes on him as he slowly backs away, taking his knife in hand in combat stance.

“I’m with the police. If you fail to comply, I’m cleared to use force.”

The gangly figure makes no move. He’s dangerously close to his gun, but Abel is prepared to stab him if he so much as stoops.  
Abel scents the air. Still no scent. Just the barest scent of grime too similar to what’s here already. And..  
Abel tenses. More subtle scents. Alpha. Alphas. Not this one but close -

His thoughts are cut short as, out of the darkness, another figure appears and slams into the side of the man he was just looking at.

The two of them crash to one side, rolling behind his car. There is a loud grunt, then the distinctive sound of concrete cracking under force. Abel lunges for his gun, but when he picks it up his path is suddenly blocked by the appearance of three more people, hidden by the night's darkness.

Abel barely keeps himself from shooting immediately. Right now, he has to think like a cop, not a hunter.  
The figures don’t seem to be armed, but none of the figures seem to pay him much attention. Instead, they are all focused on the fight continuing out of sight behind the car. Abel grits his teeth at the dismissal. Sorely tempted to shoot one just to show how stupid they are to underestimate him.

Calm down. Follow protocol.

“Put your hands behind your head and get on the ground!”

The heads of the three figures snap around to face him. The motion is eerily quick.

"Who the hell is he?" one of them asks.

“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind getting down for him” another replies in amusement. If he has to shoot, he promises himself, he’ll shoot that one first.

The car beside them suddenly rocks slightly, the two people behind it finally surfacing. The taller of the two slams the other onto the bonnet of the car, and Abel frowns as the metal buckles beneath the heavy impact.

“That’s enough!” Abel barks, losing patience. This situation is bad, threatening, rankling.. He wants to kill all of them. He could get away with it if he’s lucky. If he can manage to kill five strangely skilled and strong people all by himself.

The figure holding the man down glances up at my words, but as soon as they do, their captive cracks his fist against their jaw. The captor stumbles back from the impact. The man flashes past him in a blur so fast it can't be real. He should be scared, but it’s another wave of anger that he feels. How dare there be such an unpredictable, improbable variable? He’s not ready for this bullshit.

"Don't let him go!" the figure calls, rubbing their jaw from the hit.

The group tenses, obviously about to run after the speeding figure. But Abel moves forwards and comes to stand before them, gun still raised. "Stay where you are!"

Amazingly, they do—all four of them. A gun tends to have that effect. A whole mob against a single gunslinger could easily overpower him, but they never make the sacrifice of stepping up first.  
This would indicate that they are either pacifists, or people unaccustomed to disarming someone without getting killed.

“Get on the ground, hands behind your head.” Abel says, calmer now. Colder. “I have no issue using force if required.”

One of the shadowed figures shuffles a step closer. "Look, whoever you are—"

“Stop.” It’s a command and a warning. Disobedience will be punished.

"Or what?" another asks from the darkness, the question coming out in a half-taunt. Abel notes him with a glance, gun still trained on the closest. Insolent. Stupid. Irritating.

“Or I’ll -“ Abel stops himself from saying ‘kill you’. He’s an officer, he reminds himself again. “- shoot”.

There is a heavy silence, broken only by my heavy breathing and the slight breeze that rattles through the surrounding trees.

"He's bluffing," one of them suddenly says, mistaking the hitch for nervousness. "I say knock him out and let's go."

There's a quick shift of movement from the corner of his eye as one of them steps closer. Abel turns and shoots. The crack of the gun is like lightning as it pierces through the quiet.

The lack of reaction from the man is unsatisfying as it is troubling. For a moment he wonders if he hit them at all, but they suddenly give a small grunt and grab at their right shoulder.

"Shit! He actually shot you!" There is a peal of laughter from one of the other figures, and Abel notes the amusement in it instead of concern for their associate.

“I don’t bluff.” Abel says coldly. “Cooperate with the procedure, or I’ll shoot all of you.”

“Damn, he’s a cold blooded one!” the one who was laughing quips.

"Shut up," the wounded one growls through the darkness.

Abel is about to lose patience again when he hears a loud bang from behind. He swings around, only to find it's the doors of the warehouse creaking in the breeze. When he turns back to face the group, they've vanished.

“What..”

There wasn’t even a sound. Thoroughly disturbed and confused, he leans on the car to gather himself, adrenaline draining and leaving him shaking. He takes a breath, and another, before moving to take a blood sample from the small dribble on the ground. He radios the station next.

“I need aid securing an assault scene at Farris and Sons, North west sector”


	2. Who's there

 

_**In an Office Building at the Edge of Wayhaven** _

\---

"Hahaha!" Felix bursts out a laugh as he walks up to the door of the out-of-the-way office building.

Adam shoots him a glare. "Are you finished?"

Felix glances at him before falling into laughter once more.

Adam groans and shakes his head, slamming open the door with such force it almost rips away from its hinges.

"Take it easy," Nate says, placing a concerned hand on his friend's shoulder. Adam tries to do as suggested, but his back still tightens, adding to the intense, white-hot, throbbing pain from the wound in his right shoulder.

Felix wipes away a tear from his eyes and grins, the expression far too much like a panther for anyone to think it's genuine. "I still can't believe he shot you."

"He was scared," Nate says.

"I don't care why he did it," Felix replies. "I only care that he did. The look on our almighty leader's face when it happened!" He claps Adam on the back and lets out another chortle, not noticing the tightening of Adam's jaw or the balling of his fist at his side.

"We should have taken him out as soon as we got there," Mason says, a guttural growl rumbling at the back of his throat as he speaks.

Felix turns to Mason, arching a thick, black brow. "Ah, you're always such a people person."

Nate rolls his eyes, his expression like a parent tired of their bickering children.

The group continues on up the narrow flight of stairs until they reach a dark wood door, a panel of opaque glass obscuring the room inside. Adam pushes open the door, the group coming to a stop at the sight of a slim woman in a grey suit. Waves of sleek ebony black hair streams down over her shoulders.

She looks up from the manila folder she was peering at and glares at them. "I was expecting you an hour ago." A frown creases her brow as she looks over Adam's wound. "What happened?"

Felix barely stifles a laugh as Adam waves away her question with a sharp breath.

The group bustles inside, spreading themselves about the room. Nate takes a seat on the opposite side of the mahogany desk, fidgeting slightly when it's obviously not as comfy as it appeared.  
Mason manages to scout out the darkest corner, a flash of flame glimmering in his eyes, followed by a ring of cigarette smoke circling from his lips. Felix flops into one of the other padded chairs, arms and legs draped over the sides and head lolled back.

Ignoring his companions, Adam strides to the only window in the room. The fragile, slatted blind quivers at his touch as he peers through it to the street below.

"There's no one around," the woman says. She lets the file in her hands drop to the desk, the slap of paper on wood sounding at the light impact.

"So, agent," Felix says, shifting slightly, "what are we doing in this dump?"

"Do you mean the town or the office?" Mason asks.

"Both," Felix replies. The two grin at each other, Mason's stream of smoke becoming ragged as he chuckles.

"You should be more serious regarding this matter. You know how the last team in Wayhaven ended up…." Her trailing words make them all tense, remembering the photos of the mangled bodies.

"Well, you did send a team of demons to do a vampire's job," Felix mutters, obviously trying to break the heavy silence.

The woman’s grim expression doesn’t change. Hand tightening over three manilla folders.

“Rebecca? What is it?” Nate asks, noting her tension.

“There might be three more potential victims in Wayhaven.”

“Three??” Felix exclaimed. “I thought they were supposed to be rare!”

“We’re not certain of the other two yet. Your additional objective to your current mission is to ascertain whether they are while protecting one of them.”

“What?” Mason splutters.

“If they are confirmed to be potential victims, you’re to protect them as well.”

There’s a moment of baffled silence among the team. Even Nate leans forward, lacing his fingers together in confusion. "Protection?"

The agent's lips thin, and she marches in front of the desk to stare at them. "You're my team," she says, her gaze drawn back to the folder on the desk. "There is no one else I—I mean, we, the Agency—would trust with this assignment. He won’t leave the town when there are three more potential victims all conveniently gathered in one spot.”

"Why does the killer want them?" Mason asks through a puff of smoke. "Doesn't the mutation mean he can't use his pheromones on them to get them to do what he wants, like normal humans?"

"That didn't help his other victims. But we're not sure of his reasons," the agent replies quickly. "You know who he is; you just have to find him and stop him."

"And also keep this new targets safe?" Felix asks. “Targets plural. No trouble at all then." He huffs.

"Who are we being assigned to?" Nate asks, leaning further forward. “You said one of them is already confirmed.”

"It's…" she begins, then straightens herself, her stiff expression returning. She stacks the folders one top of each other, throwing it onto the small table in front of the group. "It's my son."

The group, surprised by this sudden announcement and not even aware Agent Fairbourne had a child, eventually glance at the photo now spread in the open top file.

"You've got to be kidding me," Adam says with a loud groan, gripping his wounded shoulder.  
Felix bursts out laughing.

Their new assignment is protecting the detective they'd just met outside of the warehouse.

 

\----

 

_**Next Morning, Wayhaven station** _

_**\---** _

Having worked all night, Abel slumps down in his office chair. He drags an exhausted hand over his face. They couldn’t pin point where exactly the unknown suspects had run away to - the trails quickly disappearing in the woods. There were no prints or evidence on his car either, though they’d calculated considerable force had been applied to the dented hood of his car. The gravel samples confirmed a match with the soil collected from the corpse. Most puzzling however, was the blood analysis. Not a match to the one found in the victim’s veins, but with similar qualities.

Great. This was suddenly less a crime mystery and more a freakish government secret encounter.  
What was this? People trying to make super soldiers? If it was, this would soon be out of his hands.  
He just hoped the samples won’t mysteriously disappear on their way to the haematologist.

He drags his eyes back to the half written report. This usually helps him organise his thoughts, but right now his thoughts are buzzing like a hoard of hornets with no coordination.  
A knock on his door is a welcome distraction.

“Detective Fairbourne?”

“Jaskier, come in.” Abel eyes the papers in his subordinate’s hand apprehensively. “Witness reports?”

“Indeed. You could take a break, though. I heard you didn’t go home yesterday.”

Abel frowns at the thought of the thigh sitting in his fridge. Well, meat one day less fresh won’t be the end of the world.

“I’m alright, Jess. Not up for more reading though. Talk me through?”

Jaskier brightens and takes a seat. “I’ll warn you, there’s not much to go on. She didn’t have many friends. One witness saw her at a grocery store two days prior to her death, and a neighbour reported.. hearing chanting around the same time.”

“Chanting.”

Great. Now just government super soldiers, they have a cult now.

“Yes, chanting. She couldn’t make out the words, though. I think you should go talk to her.”

Abel simply lays his head down on his desk and lets out a long hiss.

 

\----

 

_**Later That Day** _

_**\---** _

The rest of the morning passes slowly. The patrol finds nothing unusual, and their reliable scouts around town (the elderly who just love to curtain-twitch whenever they get the chance) also haven't seen anything strange, nor any new visitors to Wayhaven.

He grabs a cup of instant from the coffee machine and takes a swig, hoping to wake his mind up a little. He almost immediately spits it back out, gagging on the cold slop which fills his mouth. It takes all his strength to swallow it down, his face pinching together to force it past his tongue.

“What. The fuck.” He gestures with the offending drink at Douglas through the glass partition.

The young clerk spins on his chair to face him through the window, glances at the drink, then shrugs. "The kettle's broken."

Abel sighs, throwing out a curse at whatever god is watching in amusement. The red light on the kettle blinks like a heartbeat—a weak one. He leans down towards it, peering at the white plastic shell of the machine. Retrieving some tools from the office, Abel unplugs the machine and sets to work. Fixing machines is easier than fixing humans.

A few minutes later the kettle whirs to life, the red light flashing happily away. He finally collects his steaming cup with satisfaction.

"You always did have a knack for technology."

The new voice makes him whirl around. His brows arch in surprise to see the woman standing before him.

“Rebecca.” He says tonelessly, noting the minute flinch it causes. His biological absentee mother recovers quickly and puts on a wane smile. Abel takes a fortifying swig of his coffee before leading her to his office.

“I thought the case was shady. Didn’t know it was under your department’s jurisdiction.”

Rebecca looks surprised as she seats herself. Does she really consider him that stupid?

“If you’re here to take over, I at least appreciate that you came to tell me face to face.”

He puts down his cup. ‘Now what?’

“I-“

It takes an annoyingly long time for Rebecca to regain composure this time. He uses the lull to further centre himself. Cold, impassive, tranquil. Merely an observer of events.

“We’re not here to take over. I’m here to offer assistance.” She finally says.

Abel narrows his eyes in suspicion.

"The man you're looking for has killed before, in many places. We've been tracking him for months." She continues. "But I don't believe he will be leaving Wayhaven for some time, so now is our last chance to catch him.”

“Why won’t he be leaving?”

Rebecca continues sitting stiffly, lips pursed.

“Classified. Right.” Abel hums. “What do you want from me?”

Straight to the point. Rebecca’s thrown off again. She’d been hoping to sell it like she was doing a favour for him. The continued disrespect to his intelligence is tiring.

“We want to help -“ She tries again. Abel cuts her off, not wanting to waste time.

“If you wanted to help, you’d give me the necessary pieces for the puzzle. What do you expect me to do without being able to see the whole picture? My deductions would be practically useless. If you want to do all the work for me, why bother giving me the credit? Unless you want a cover for his crimes? Make it out like he’s a normal murderer that got captured or killed by a normal Wayhaven detective?”

Rebecca gapes for a moment and briskly stands up. Stepping to the dingy shuttered window to collect herself.

“Yes.” She finally says. Her voice taking the tone of business. “We will help you capture the suspect while keeping our classified information. Even without the whole facts, I believe your detective skills will be an asset to my team. You’ll take him down, make it public that you’ve detained him. We’ll take him in afterwards.”

Abel ponders upon this. “Seems reasonable. How are you planning on ‘aiding’ me?”

“I’m offering you my unit.”

Unit? “Pardon?”

"My unit, Unit Bravo. The team of agents I command." She gives a half-smile at his obvious surprise.

Abel stops himself from asking more about her position, anticipating the usual deflection.

“What does this unit specialise in?” He asks instead.

“Tracking and capture. Much like the police.” She moves to the doorway, gesturing towards the front doors of the station.

Abel’s eyes widen a little. He didn’t expect to be introduced to them right away. He doesn’t know if he could handle more human interaction today.  
The detective takes a steadying breath. Persevere. The day is almost over.

His hand twitches when he sees the four men march into his office. Too large. Too cramped. He doesn’t bother standing, keeping his expression blank as he appraises them.  
Military stance, most pronounced in the blond man. Least pronounced in the short dark skinned one. The smell of cigarettes shrouds a wolfish looking man. The tallest one is at least 6’5”. Abel resists the urge to adjust his collar to cover his neck, and instead reaches for a pencil. The blond one snaps his attention to his hand when Abel pulls out a scalpel from a black case. Interestingly, he’s not dismissed as nonthreatening despite his gender. The scent blocker would have worn off by now, making his status unmistakable.

The snicking sounds of him sharpening the pencil fills the tense silence. A scalpel in his hand is always calming. The blond looks ready to comment, but the tall alpha clears his throat and shuffles forward with a kind smile.

"Let's make sure we get off on the right foot, Detective Fairbourne," he says. "My name is Nathaniel Sewell, but I prefer Nate." There's no distinguishable accent. None at all. Once again he gives a bright, warm smile. Not sensing any deceit in his dark brown eyes, Abel puts down the pencil. Twirling the scalpel in his left hand, he rounds the desk. Agent Sewell takes a respectful step back, but otherwise, no one moves. Placing the scalpel within reach, Abel holds out a hand.

“Abel Fairbourne. Detective.”

The handshake is satisfactory. No posturing or lingering. Just genuine warmth and politeness. His casual attire and gentle stance helps ease Abel’s wariness despite his incredible height. He gives him a nod as the alpha steps back into the line-up of his group, standing beside the blond alpha a few inches shorter. The man stares at Abel for a short moment, his posture stiff, and his expression stern.

Another agent approaches, breaking Abel’s impassive appraisal. "I'm Felix," the approaching man says, a more American accent to his tone. "Felix Hauville."

He's quite obviously the youngest of the group. Dressed up in skinny jeans and a waist coat over a casual t shirt, accessorised with a scarf and a hat. There’s no discernible pheromone scent to him, and Abel doesn’t bother to wonder. He extends a hand. Agent Hauville shakes it for a moment before clasping it tighter and sauntering a step closer. He's much shorter than Nate, five foot seven at most, but he’s standing too close. Abel’s hand tightens in warning.

"A true delight to meet you, Detective," he coos, bringing his fingers up to his shapely lips.

“Stop.” He commands.

The flirty agent complies. Letting go with a playful pout.

Not bad, he thinks, giving him a nod. He then steps back to his group, and Nate shakes his head in an exasperated manner at Felix. The man only gives a bright grin in return.

Two more to go. They seem less friendly than Hauville and Sewell. Abel looks between the two reticent men with detached curiosity. He’d always felt calmer in the face of aggression.

“Names?” He inquires softly.

The dark haired man on his right huffs, drawing Abel’s attention.

“If you’d rather be called ‘Agent four’, that’s fine by me.” Abel shrugs.

Felix lets out a whooping laugh, and ‘Agent four’ snarls at him. Rebeccas steps in before the situation escalates. “That’s special agent Mason,” she introduces him.

The agent’s layered dark hair and heavy stubble contributes to his earlier assessment as ‘wolf like’, as does his hunched figure and narrowed grey eyes. Abel appreciates the freckles scattered over his tan skin.  
A crystal dangles from one of the cords of leather around his neck. Abel eyes it curiously before he notices the gaze and slips it beneath his shirt.

Last one. He looks at the bond alpha expectantly. Cold green eyes meet his gaze.

“Commanding agent Adam du Mortain.”

Abel’s brows twitch. There’s something familiar about the man. Careful not to breach politeness by showing it, he cautiously scents the air, and stiffens.

The barest hint of alpha before a man barrelled into his first suspect. The same man he shot.

Abel’s gaze turns sharp. “You.. sound familiar. Much like someone I met last night.”

The agent eyes him carefully. “That seems unlikely.”

“Oh?” Abel steps closer and the man stiffens further. He allows his stance to be predatory as he leans into the alpha’s space, aware that it could be seen as flirting otherwise. If their genders were reversed, it would certainly be seen as such.  
Agent Sewell stifles a small gasp beside his target when he takes a small sniff.

Huh. No blood.

“Unit bravo arrived this morning. They can’t have met you last night.” Rebecca says, a little mortified by her son’s behaviour.

He pulls away, disappointed and a little annoyed at himself. For the last time, he sticks his hand out. Adam stares down at it as though the gesture is completely foreign, and Abel can’t fault him after his display. But he does eventually take it.

"I look forward to working with you," he says, every word spoken in a distinct British accent, and each one also sounding like a lie.

"Likewise," he replies, pulling his hand back and pressing it against his thigh to stop the aching fingers from his overly firm grasp. Again, he can’t fault him.

Abel returns to his seat behind the desk and slips the scalpel back into its case.

"Well, now that introductions have been made, I hope you'll all work together to find the murderer," Rebecca says, her gaze shifting pointedly over her team. "Unit Bravo were only assigned this case a couple of weeks ago themselves, so they'll be as fresh as you. But I'm proud of their accomplishments so far, and have no doubt they will aid you to their highest abilities."

Mason scoffs from where he's balanced himself against a side table in the furthest corner.

She ignores him, striding past the group towards her son. "I'm giving you my team to help, so use them as best you can. They are experienced at this kind of work.”  
“As much as I can while running blind.” He murmurs into his coffee, now cold. Adam du Mortain seems to have heard, raising an eyebrow at Rebecca.

"Well, I'll see you soon, Abel," she says with a tone of wistfulness. She heads towards the door, pulling her long jacket about herself tighter. "Adam, don't forget the reason your team is here." Abel narrows his eyes at the look she throws the leader of the group, a silent exchange passing between them before her heels click over the floor as she leaves.

The reason? The real reason? Could it be that she was lying about her intentions to him? He ponders on asking the commander directly, but ultimately brushes it off.

The prickling weariness that comes from social anxiety threatens to creep back up, and Abel tamps it down. Just a few more things to settle.

He glances at his unfinished report and tries not to let the way the group casually settling themselves around the office bother him. Adam du Mortain has moved almost out of his sightline, so he turns slightly in his chair to keep them all in view.

Right. Cards on the table.

“I know there’s something.. freakish about the murder that you need to cover up.”

The agents tense at his words, so he continues. “I also know that there is classified information that I should never hear about. I’m willing to work under these conditions. But,“

He fixes his gaze on agent du Mortain. Cold light grey meets steely green.

“If you are planning to deliberately derail me from catching the suspect, leave now and don’t come back.”

The agent grits his teeth in visible annoyance. Abel looks on, studying his reaction.

“Are you planning to derail me, commanding agent du Mortain?” He asks levelly.

Adam clenches and unclenches his fist a couple of times before gritting out, “No.” The alpha looks away, a faint sneer in his features. Abel suspects he imagines he won’t have to derail him to keep him away from the suspect.

Is that what he wants? Why?

Abel studies his profile for a bit before turning back to his computer.

“You will receive the reports tomorrow morning. Give me your own reports of the suspect’s prior murders for me to read.”

He hears the draw of breath before a protest and cuts him off. “Black line the classified information if you must. Or tell me what I Can know.”

“You don’t need to know anything.” Adam snaps. Abel clicks his tongue. Rebecca’s little pack of egos has no desire to cooperate.

“How many murders of his have you investigated prior to this?”

There’s a pause before Nate answers. “Five.”

“Locations?”

“Two in the United mainland, one in Italy, one in Denmark, and one in Russia.” Felix chirps.

“Same MO as this case?”

“Yes”

“Then there are indeed things I can and need to know. Will you give me the edited report or not?”

When he turns back to Adam du Mortain, he expects him to be livid. But instead, there’s a small hint of curiosity under his perpetual frown. After another moment of tense silence, he nods curtly.

“Good. Anything you’d like to know about the case?”

“We know enough.”

“You know of the warehouse?”

Everyone in the office pauses, including Abel. A sudden thought strikes him. He’s fairly certain there were five men in the dark with him yesterday night. Four against one. Unit Bravo had four members, they are after a suspect. But the blood? He eyes Agent du Mortain’s shoulder again, debating whether to demand that he undress and show him the wound - or lack of it. Propriety be damned.

“The warehouse?” Nate tries to bluff. The pause was too long, his voice slightly wavering. He’s not a man used to lying.

Abel drags a hand over his eyes in sudden frustration. He hates pussyfooting around.

“You were at the warehouse. All four of you. I don’t know how you dealt with the bullet, but judging by your blood sample that I took and the strength you displayed on the site, I’m guessing you have whatever super soldier stuff that they tried to inject the victim with running in your veins. You were after the suspect that assaulted me. Is he the suspect of the murder case?”

Silence reigns again. When he removes the hand from his face, he finds them all gaping at him.

“Fucks sake, I’m not stupid.” He grouses. He’s getting sick of people undermining him. It’s useful in luring in prey, but never in the workplace.

“So you know who the suspect is. Any reason why I shouldn’t put an APB on him?”

He gives only a second before standing up.

“Actually, no, I’m done for today. Give me an answer tomorrow. Meet me in my office at 8am. Out.”

Abel bites his tongue at his own rudeness. Reigning in the desperation for solitude, he tries again.

“Sorry, I’d like you to leave now so I can lock down the office. Goodbye.”

When he finally ushers the spluttering and dour agents out and arrives home, he crashes. Mr. Gladstone’s thigh once again neglected in his fridge.


End file.
